Kabul, T̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶r̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶s̶i̶a̶ ̶ the hubris of Asia
When the leaves turn brown and the evenings bleed orange, I'm robbed up by the admirers of mountains, desserts, rivers, bazaars and everything else.
I'm settled to be a paradise with gun-lights on highways, a castle indebted to freedom and a pilgrimage invaded by, once, twice, thrice, till every- thing fades, while Soviet sighs.
Dine in the world library, and trail migrating dynasties on the snippets of my bare skin, call me a coal-tar but you'll excavate diamonds in men on my lands while women are hindered from rebels but often preyed for their beauty.
The sky curls up in blue and the autumn in auburn shades, snow melts upon the empty walls of exhausted palace, and village huts carry too much. I feel like I'm an ordinary city.
But I'm more than museums and mausoleums, maybe a chronicle of vague dates, millions of places, obsolete tongues and unheard wars, hungry for prayers and peace yet served with another history. ~Kabul